


A Cat of a Different Coat

by LustMonster



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: And Charles is Ygritte, Angst, Basically Erik is Jon Snow, Betrayal, F/M, M/M, The Night's Watch, Wildlings - Freeform, a storm of swords spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 01:17:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LustMonster/pseuds/LustMonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Essentially, in which Erik is Jon Snow and Charles is Ygritte, told in the most choppy, bare bones of manners taking place during A Clash of Kings and A Storm of Swords.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cat of a Different Coat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lastemptation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastemptation/gifts).



> This is for my husband celebrating our 1-year anniversary. It seems like an age ago we were planning our crazy mutant husband wedding (shenanigans are never far when we're involved, are they?) and even longer since we met. You've brought so much light into my life I didn't know was possible and given me more love and support than I dreamt was possible. It's hard to summarize all of my feelings into words because they're so great and I've all but lost my ability to utilize this thing called "eloquence." Here's to this year and every year to come, I hope this is a worthy showing of my undying, boundless love and affection <3

_I couldn’t kill him because he was beautiful and I thought him a woman at first_. Even to his own ears, the words sounded craven. He glowered across the wildling’s camp from the safety of his furs at Charles’ back. If the wildling boy felt his gaze or thoughts, he made no movements to indicate it, still save for the rise and fall of the fur as he breathed. Erik cursed himself again, his damnable weakness that had led him here. Perhaps if he’d killed Charles like the other wildling, he would be back on the Fist with his brothers, laughing at the Summers boy and bringing Lord Commander Rogers his nightly wine. But he’d rolled the sleeping wildling over and frozen in the gravity of blue eyes and a pretty face.

 

“Lord Crow,” Charles called him with his gap-toothed smile, and Erik wanted to loathe him as he did Ser Sebastian, but there was no malice in his voice, and that laughter did something odd to Erik’s knees.

 

On the other side, he figured Charles had saved his life. When Azazel had told him to do what he must to do what he must, play the turncloak, Erik had followed him, killed him and begged for his life. Charles had spoken for him when the others would have him suffer the same fate as Azazel, defended him still when they questioned his loyalty to the Watch. “Erik’s one of us now, he killed the One-eye, now we take him to Tony and let him judge,” the words were spoken so often, Erik wondered if Charles was part raven, repeating the same phrases with no deviation from what he’d heard. The thought had made the boy laugh and smile broadly.

 

“Telepaths, wargs, we’re all cut from the same bloody cloth,” he’d said with his shaky laugh and clapped Erik on the back, mischief dancing in his eyes.

 

If nothing else, Erik had learned wildlings were mischievous, and most were bawdy in their jests, free in their fucking and served no men but themselves, though they all followed the king-beyond-the-wall. Charles, for all his eloquence—his mother was a highborn Westerosi woman, he claimed—was the same as the rest.

 

In the day, they marched away from the Wall, back toward the wildling encampment, and at night they set watches and rings of fire before sleeping. Each night, Charles’ furs crept closer toward Erik until he was setting them right beside the taller man, whistling and smiling as he did.

 

“What’re you doing?” Erik demanded as the telepath was unclasping Azazel’s old cloak.

 

“Setting my bed.”

 

“Don’t you want to be closer to the fire?”

 

“No.”

 

“You ought to be. You’re . . .”

 

“I’m?”

 

“Skinny.”

 

Charles laughed and ran his fingers through his wild chestnut hair. “You’ll serve.”

 

“I’m no bed warmer, Charles.”

 

He smiled and shrugged. “Afraid you’ll like it too much, Lord Crow?” The wildling nodded silently and Erik stared at him. It was unnerving, watching his eyes shine when he was lost in the mind of another, especially knowing that mind was his own. “You want to.” He said it without inflection, a simple stated fact. “Don’t know where to put it?”

 

“I know where to put it,” Erik snapped, folding his arms. “I’m—”

 

Charles quirked his head to the side, and Erik wondered yet again if he was part raven. “A man of the Night’s Watch,” was finished for him. His eyes were too knowing and Erik wanted, for a wild moment, to pluck them out and bury them in the snow. “I won’t tell them.”

 

“Why?”

 

He shrugged and wrapped himself in furs. “I like you.”

 

________________________

 

Anthony Stark was nothing like Erik had expected.

 

When he’d entered the king’s hide tent, he’d been greeted by a dark-skinned man missing one eye and a great black beard, though the top of his head was naked and gleamed in the fire’s light. Beside him sat another bearded man, this one pale and golden of hair, but no less fierce than his companion. He’d stared between the two, trying to decide which one was Anthony Stark. Neither had the Stark look about him, but it was widely believed that he was a legitimized bastard and not one of Lord Howard and Lady Maria’s sons.

 

The great blond man was well-spoken for all his size, the one-eyed man quiet and observant. At the other end of the fire, a pregnant woman was shuffling about and a man of medium-height was playing a silver-stringed harp and singing “The Rains of Castamere.”

 

_And who are you, the proud lord said,_

_that I must bow so low?_

_Only a cat of a different coat,_

_that's all the truth I know._

_In a coat of gold or a coat of red,_

_a lion still has claws,_

_And mine are long and sharp, my lord,_

_as long and sharp as yours._

_And so he spoke, and so he spoke,_

_that lord of Castamere,_

_But now the rains weep o'er his hall,_

_with no one there to hear._

_Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall,_

_and not a soul to hear._

 

When the song finished, the blond man hooted and banged his tin cup on his armored chest. Finally, they seemed to notice Erik, five eyes looking to him. He swallowed, glancing to the blond man and kneeling.

 

“M’lord.”

 

It was silent in the tent far too long before the man began to laugh.

 

“ _M’lord_ ,” he roared, “the crow boy calls me ‘m’lord,’ you hear, Stark? Mayhap thou ought to bequeath thy title to the mighty Thor and thou could’st be Anthony Stark, squire-beyond-the-Wall, hm?”

 

The singer laughed and Erik looked between the two, swallowing heavily. Finally, he stood, features clearer without the fire between them. The king-beyond-the-wall’s hair was close-cropped, as was his beard. He was better kept than the other two men and had a natural poise to him that reminded Erik of Charles for some reason.

 

“So you’re the turncloak who slew Azazel.” Anthony Stark stepped around the fire, a great sheepskin cloak dragging behind him like a cape. His dark eyes were shrewd but not unkind, discerning. He stopped just before he reached Erik, looking him up and down. “I have half a mind to thank you for killing my enemy, and slay you for killing my friend.” He folded bare arms. “Which would you propose I do, Erik?”

 

“Thank me for the former and curse me for the latter, but let me keep my life.”

 

Anthony smiled, then. “Clever, this one. Shall we call you Erik Crow-Slayer?”

 

“If you wish.”

 

“We’re freefolk, Erik, if you like the name, keep it. If it rankles you, cast it off. I was called Tony Turncloak for a moon, but it fit me ill, so I let it go. So tell me, will you keep it?”

 

“I think not.”

 

“Alright.” Tony nodded and gestured behind him. “These men are two of my commanders. Thor Odinson of Asgard in the far north, Jotun-slayer.” Thor grinned and stroked his golden beard, beating a fist against his chest in greeting. “And the Magnar Nicholas Fury. This woman is Pepper. She carries my child; treat her as you would a queen.”

 

Erik bowed his head.

 

“Now tell me, Erik, where do you come from?”

 

“The Wall. Ranging with Azazel.” The lie came easier than he would have expected.

 

“A green boy way out here with Azazel. And what were you doing so far out?”

 

“Scouting, seeing what you all have been up to.”

 

“Old Rogers sent you out here to check on us?”

 

“Aye, sir.” Tony stared at him a long time, as if trying to ascertain the truth of his words for himself. “Pepper.” The woman glanced up. “Fetch Charles.”

 

She nodded, disappearing from the tent. They could hear her calling the wildling boy within and moments later she returned with him in tow. Charles smiled at the king-beyond-the-Wall, brushing past Erik to embrace him.

 

“Charles, tell me true. Do you trust this turncloak?”

 

“I don’t make a habit of lying with untrustworthy liars, Tony. He spared my life, he speaks true.”

 

Tony looked between the two of them, smirking. “Two hearts that beat as one.” He nodded and ruffled Charles’ messy hair. “You see hearts truer than any.”

 

“The gods blessed me.”

 

“That they did.” He gave Erik a hard look. “Take care of this one, boy. Or it won’t matter if you bleed red or black.”

 

“Yes, Your Grace.”

 

“And none of that ‘Your Grace,’ nonsense. Call me Tony.”

 

“Yes, Your—Tony.”

 

Stark and the others laughed. “Your Tony, that’s a new one.” He chuckled and waved them off. “Go on, you two.”

 

****

 

“Why did you tell him we’ve .  . . we’ve—”

 

“Fucked?” Charles laughed, delighted as they walked through the camp. “Tony was one of you. He knows your vows, and you’ve already killed one of your former brothers. Lying with me is another nail in the casket.” He smiled and twined their fingers. “No one gives a toss, Erik. You heard Tony, two hearts beating as one. He always knows.”

 

“What if I don’t want my heart . . . beating with yours?”

 

“You can’t control your heart, Erik. That’s what makes it a heart. It wants what it wants, same as your cock.” He squeezed Erik through the front of his trousers. “And I can read what they want. It’s my gift.”

 

________________________

 

Erik told himself he did this to hold off suspicion. Instead of giving him cold stares, the other wildlings had begun to give him laughter, making lewd japes when he followed Charles to their shared furs each night. Thor Odinson affectionately called Charles “Crow Wife” and winked at Erik each night before bed.

 

Charles was warm in his arms and softer than he would have imagined beneath all the layers he swaddled himself in. When Erik opened him up, the wildling moaned sweetly and pressed cherry-stained lips everywhere they would reach. Beneath his hand, Charles called out _ErikErikErik_ like a prayer and his eyes grew wilder by the second.

 

Erik swore to himself it was his duty, no hesitation, as Azazel had instructed him. It was to play the part of a turncloak, though his heart beat black blood as certainly as it had the day he’d taken his vows. But each day the voice that whispered his vows on repeat grew softer, drowned out by Charles’ _ErikErikErik_ , his laughter, his whispers beneath the stars and the weight of his professed love. He tried to hate Charles in his heart of hearts, but the wildling was like a weed sprouting anew each time he thought he’d gotten rid of him.

 

“Don’t fight me, love,” Charles whispered against his chest, breath warm and wet. “You’re mine, now. The Wall can’t have you.”

 

“They’ll kill me for a deserter if I fight them with you.”

 

“I’ll kill anyone who tries to harm you. Two hearts, remember?” His fingers slipped up Erik’s arm and twined with the elder’s. “I’ll fight all the crows if I must.”

 

“Then you’re a fool.” Erik growled and Charles laughed.

 

“Tony agrees. But we’re bound, you and me. We do foolish things to stay alive, and as we are one, I’ll do foolish things to keep you with me.”

 

“What if I leave you?”

 

“Then I’ll hunt you ‘til my dying day, Erik. Believe that. And I’ll always find you.” His free fingers tapped Erik’s temple. “Always.”

 

________________________

 

Charles’ promise echoed in Erik’s ears as he stumbled from his horse, his leg throbbing from the arrow his lover had loosed into it. He barely knew Hank when the younger man caught him, though Erik relaxed at the sight of blacks.

 

“Wildlings,” he told his brother as the stunned crow led him toward Maester Strange’s tower. “Coming to the Wall.”

 

“No one’s seen anything, Erik. We knew—”

 

“No, Hank. They crossed . . . climbed over . . . coming from the south . . .”

 

“The _south_?” Hank repeated disbelievingly. “We have to tell Maester Strange.”

 

“No, Lord Commander. Have to tell him . . .”

 

“Erik . . . Lord Commander Rogers never returned. He was killed beyond the Wall. And the Wolverine left to help out at Shadowgate. I have the Wall, now.”

 

“You.”

 

“Me.” Hank laughed nervously and Erik opened his eyes in Maester Strange’s tower.

 

“Hello, Erik.” The maester’s chains jingled as he moved to lean over him, his expression grim. “Hank told me what you told him. Grave tidings. How many men in this party?”

 

“Only . . . only twenty or so. Strong fighters, but disorganized.” He thought of Charles, his blue eyes and red smile, whispering against his skin. _I’ll always find you_.

 

“Troubling nonetheless.”

 

Castle Black was built to house the black brothers and all they needed, but the Wall was their defense. The Night’s Watch’s neutrality had given them no reason to have defenses to the south, which made it difficult to defend from the wildlings, undermanned as they were. Maester Strange informed him that barely a dozen of the men from the Fist had made it back to the Wall and the Wolverine had taken every able-bodied man when he’d left before that, leaving the young, old, green and wounded to hold the Wall. Hank had the Wall and almost no men to defend it.

 

“We have to send someone to Mole’s Town,” Erik murmured, “keep them safe when the wildlings attack . . .”

 

“Aye. Hank sent a man to do it. They’re readying for battle. All able-bodied men have been given a weapon. We don’t mean to let them take that gate. We’ll collapse it if we fall.” The maester’s face was grim.

 

“I want to help.” Erik sat up slowly, wincing as pain shot through his leg. “I can’t fight, but I can still use a bow. I can’t sit idly by and let my brothers die when I could have helped.”

 

Maester Strange nodded, smiling slowly. “I’ll find you a crutch for that leg.”

 

________________________

 

_“I’ll fight all the crows if I must.”_ He found Charles watching the stars, his eyelashes clumped together, tears frozen in them like pearls.

 

_“I’ll hunt you ‘til my dying day, Erik. Believe that.”_ The arrow that stuck out of his throat was fletched with pale gray feathers, much like the one he’d shot into Erik’s leg. He didn’t look to be in much pain, though his fingers flexed and curled around the shaft.

 

_“And I’ll always find you.”_ When he turned his head, the blood beneath it became apparent, a frosted puddle of red like a halo beneath him. _“Always.”_

 

There was no resentment in Charles’ eyes, just a calm resignation and a kiss of amusement. He smiled when Erik knelt beside him, gap-toothed and red-lipped as ever, no less mischievous for the wound piercing his neck.

 

“Erik,” he rasped, his laugh a dry, rattling thing. “I promised you, didn’t I?”

 

“You did.” Erik’s laugh came out half a sob. He pushed Charles’ hair away from his paling face and kissed his furrowed brow. “And here’s my castle.”

 

“I thought it would be . . . less ruined.” Charles winked, looking around with his eyes while keeping his head still. “Not bad for ghosts, though. Not too shabby at all.”

 

“No, I suppose not.”

 

“Mayhap I’ll haunt you.” He grinned and Erik snorted, because it was so very Charles-like to ignore the fact he was dying and make it all a jest. His infinite jest.

 

“Watch me bathe?”

 

“Mmhm.” The wildling lifted a blood-stained hand and touched Erik’s temple. He opened his mouth and closed it four times before he spoke. “Burn me. Or it might not be my ghost that haunts this place.”

 

“I will.”

 

“Tha’s good.” Charles’ voice was softer, slightly slurred, his eyes fighting to stay open. “Don’ forget, Lor’ Crow. Don’ forget me.”

 

“How could I?”

 

Charles laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from "The Rains of Castamere" (because no line in "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" would have made sense)


End file.
